The Hardest Button To Button
by Gibsos
Summary: 5th year Tom Riddle trying to get a decent alias. Cannon. I think... Teen, just 'cause. One-shot.


**A/N -** I've wanted to try writing Tom Riddle era/POV for a while now, not sure how it turned out so reviews are appreciated.  
HTML is pissing me off.

**Disclaimer -** I've wanted to try writing Tom Riddle era/POV for a while, not sure how it turned out so reviews would be apprciated. Title credit goes to _'the White Stripes'_ for their song '_the hardest button to button' _which also inspired this. XP  
All other disclaimers are on my homepage. 'All other' here meaning, the one saying Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling & Warner Bros.

* * *

In a dimly lit dormitory within the depths of the Slytherin common room sat fifth year Hogwarts student, Tom Riddle. The candle beside him provided the only light in the dorm, all of his year mates were asleep already, as well as most of the school as the second hand on the clock hanging on the wall ticked on to one in the morning.

Tom Riddle looked up from his project to give the clock a look of pure hatred when it chimed the hour, he had been sure he had gotten it that time. The stupid clock made him lose it, once again. What was it, the fifth time? Should it have been this hard to think of a simple anagram? He had come up with them before, though, not for a name. Tom Marvolo Riddle. He had to think of the perfect name from these letters. One that would inspire hatred, strike fear in the hearts of millions. A name fit for a great ruler, ruling above all others, except muggles, and mudbloods. _They_ would have to go. There would be no filth anywhere _near_ him. He paused again to shoot a look of disgust at a boy snoring in the farthest bed from him.

The lone mudblood in Slytherin. Tom was surprised he had lasted that long, the house had bets on when he would finally run screaming for the hills. God knows the entire house was trying to torture him into it. But Tom hadn't participated in all the childishness. Let the children think they knew how to be torturous. They hadn't a clue.

His gaze wandered around the room, looking for inspiration. Why couldn't there just be **more damn letters!** T-O-M-M-A-R-V-O-L-O-R-I-D-D-L-E. His only thoughts for the past five hours or so had been of those damnable letters, sparing thoughts of hatred for the annoying clock and his mudblood year mate, Sage Riven Copper. S-A-G-E-R-I-V-E-N-C-O-P-P-E-R. Prince Gaverseop, or something. You couldn't spell Prince with _his_ name. He almost would have envied him his name if it hadn't been so... so very... _muggle._ Almost. It _was_ a pretty stupid name after all.

Why did his life have to suck so much? He couldn't even get a decent alias out of his stupid name. And for the rest of the night Tom wallowed in self pity until he fell asleep and was late for his early transfiguration class. Figures it was the class taught by the only teacher in the school he couldn't talk out of a detention. Why did his life suck?

* * *

T-O-M-M-A-R-V-O-L-O-R-I-D-D-L-E  
...Mr Arrivoddle  
...Mr Toaremvoll

* * *

Months passed and Riddle got more and more irritable, at one point almost storming out of a History of Magic class when an unsuspecting Mr Binns mentioned the witch Wendelin the Weird who got herself captured several times under different names so she could get burnt on the stake.

Tom managed to pass off his irate growl as a cough.

The Chamber of Secrets had been opened and the mudbloods were dropping like fly's, but the only progress he had made on his alias was deciding to start it with lord, though he had developed a (rather annoying) habit of checking the letters of random words against the letters in his name. These days, pissing off Tom Riddle was about the equivalent of poking a sleeping dragon in the eye. With a sword. A rusty sword. Then doing the cancan on top of it's head.

* * *

T-O-M-M-A-R-V-O-L-O-R-I-D-D-L-E  
Lord Darvlet  
Lord Mortarve

* * *

But Tom Riddle, different as he may be, still attended the Quidditch (I-D-D-T were in his name) games. He thought it would arouse unwanted interest for him to regularly not go, though he didn't exactly mind seeing the Gryffindors (R-I-D-O-R) get pummelled (M-M-E-L-L-D).

On his way back from a particularly bloody match, where Slytherin had lost 0 to 150, though critically injured three Gryffindor players and some people in the stands, (the Slytherin beaters had horrible aim) Tom Riddle was making his merry way to lunch. Plans to use the players aptitude (A-T-I-D-E were in his name) for injuring people running through his mind. That is, until he was pushed roughly aside to make way for the Slytherin Captain (A-T-A-I). "Move bastard." he leered at Tom. Oh, that one would _have _to go.

And that one. And that one. That one too. Dear God, _that_ one was going first. He thought as a crowd of Gryffindors walked past.

Which was why he got to the great hall for lunch in a rather cheerful mood, though having just condemned (O-D-E-M-D) the entire Gryffindor and Hufflepuff houses to death, and a select few Ravenclaws, though he generally didn't know much about them, nor did he care.

However, lost to his musings as he was, he failed (A-I-L-E-D... more then usual...) to notice an unfortunate Sage Copper (perhaps the only Slytherin mudblood in history) falling against him from behind, having been pushed down the stairs. Tom turned around, a murderous look on his face. "Oppugno!" and a battalion of birds materialized from thin air and attacked the dirty mudblood. That would have to do for now, Tom mused. He couldn't very well murder him in the middle of Hogwarts. Or not yet.

Lunch passed, and Sage only got food thrown at him five times, which was an unusually small number. The Slytherins (L-T-E-R-I) were on their way back to the common room, as it was Saturday and they had no classes. When Tom Riddle and some of his followers (Dolohov, Yaxley, etc) were going into the common room, having just given the password, (Salazar (A-L-R)) they heard a scream coming from a nearby dungeon. They paused, wondering what had happened to Copper this time, when another year mate of theirs ran out to report to Tom Riddle.

Yeah, he was just _that _hardcore.

"I was hanging out in that dungeon over there with some of the other Slytherins when Copper came in," he seemed rather like an over-excited puppy as he said this, "And I cursed him! He's covered in mouldy warts! ('Mouldy warts... M-O-L-D-A-R-T,' Tom thought) And they're cursed so none of the teachers are going to be able to get them off!" blabbered the excited Slytherin boy, waiting for Tom's approval. But Toms mind was elsewhere...

Mouldy warts.... VOLDEMORT! LORD VOLDEMORT!!!! Tom Riddle had gotten his alias. There was celebrating in the Slytherin common room that night, though no one quite knew why as they had lost the Quidditch game...

* * *

Did you know that horcruxes know what is going on around the main part of the soul? Even if the soul can't tell when they're being destroyed. Well they did, and as the horcrux a 15 year old Riddle had made was writing his name in the air in the very heart of the Chamber of Secrets, which had in fact been opened once again, he was thinking back on the night, over 50 years ago, when he had finally gotten his name.

He flicked his wand over his muggle fathers name, and the letters rearranged themselves to spell out I AM LORD VOLDEMORT.

In his life, he had tracked his Squibb mothers family back to the great Slytherin himself, then tracked them to that filthy hovel they were living in, killed his father and grandparents, gotten his uncle Morfin to take the blame, opened the chamber of secrets (twice, thank you very much), made five horcruxes, avoided being killed even by Avada Kedavra, murdered countless people, and in short, almost achieved domination over the entire wizarding world. But the most difficult thing, by far, had been thinking of the name.


End file.
